


15 - 8

by Glenmore



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Balloons, M/M, Marriage, Molly's badly behaved cat, Poetry, Rugby, Sentiment, Wedding, hot chips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:05:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9518075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glenmore/pseuds/Glenmore
Summary: After all the grief of Mary, Moriarty, the non-baby and the East wind has been resolved, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson settle into a cosy relationship. But there’s something missing, and Sherlock deduces it’s sentiment.Which is why Sherlock writes John some poems.Post Series 3. No baby.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirabile Dictu (Mira)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/gifts).



> This work was posted in 2014, and deleted in 2015. It is back because Mira won me in the Fandom trumps Hate Auction and asked, as her prize, if I would re-post all my stories. 
> 
> And I say I can, I can and I do. 
> 
> Here's the first one, Mira. xxx

Inspiration can come from the strangest things. Observe: 

John and Sherlock are folded together on their couch, watching a documentary about birds. John is quite taken with the bowerbird and the odd collection of blue things the creature has gathered for a potential mate. 

“It’s amazing, isn’t it.” 

Sherlock is less impressed. 

“Not really. He wants to find a mate. As his species evolved it learnt the best way to attract a mate was with bright objects and a ready-made nest. It’s no different from you wearing a clean shirt when we go to dinner together.” 

“Yes, but I’ve got a bigger brain, opposable digits and I can reason. That’s a bloody bird with a brain the size of a peanut and it’s gone to a huge amount of trouble to impress a girl bird.” 

“It has simply followed its instincts and done whatever it can to get some bird sex,” Sherlock says dismissively. 

John sits up a little straighter and Sherlock, laying with his head in his lap, winds his arm around John’s waist and pushes his face into his belly. 

“Well, I know humans who wouldn’t go to that much trouble. Hey! Stop that!” 

Sherlock has carefully slipped his tongue into the delectable little gaps between John’s buttons and left a tiny print on the warm flesh that turns cold as soon as the air hits it. He pokes at the pleasing hard tum as he turns his face to continue. 

“It’s no different from me getting all the cups and saucers from Mrs Hudson’s cupboard and laying them all in a semi circle and then sitting among them, waiting for you to come in and assess whether you liked them or not. Would that entice you to want to be my mate? Should I do that tomorrow and see how effectively it seduces you?” 

John clasped the wandering hand and laughed. “Yeah, you being romantic. Chance would be a fine thing.” 

They continued their bantering and haphazard cuddling, punctuated by Sherlock stealing tiny tastes of John skin when he could. As far as John was concerned, nothing significant happened. 

Observe this too, a couple of nights later: 

It had been an arduous day for both men. John had worked ten hours at the clinic and was now reading in bed; Sherlock had solved the disappearance of two children (who, it transpired, were hiding in the house of the grandmother who reported them missing) and now pads out from the bathroom to slip under the sheets. 

“What are you reading?” 

“Kurt Vonnegut,” John said absently. 

“What’s it about?” 

“A computer.”   
Sherlock wanted John’s full attention. He fidgeted a little, rolled over one way, rolled over the other and then pushed himself into John’s arms. 

John rested his book on Sherlock’s head. “I’ve got three more pages. Shut up until then.”

“Is it a manual?” 

John dampens his fingertip on his tongue and turns the final page. “Fiction.” 

“Oh.” Fiction was of little interest to Sherlock. He waited with as much patience as he can muster in bed, tapping his fingers in a gentle rhythm on John’s chest. John is learning not to be swayed by Sherlock’s demands and finished his story before he closed the book and laid it on his bedside table. 

“So,” Sherlock drawled, warm and comfortable on the sturdy Watson chest, “Was it about owls and public school children at a wizard school? Tell me about it.” 

“You’re aware that there are other novels beside Harry Potter.” 

“Hmphh. I went to school and did A levels. I read novels when I had to.” 

“What ones?” 

“I deleted them. I do remember someone called Little Nell and someone else called The Savage.” 

“You can’t delete Charles Dickens and Aldous Huxley!” John was dismayed. 

“Who are they?” 

“They’re – actually, forget it.” He wound his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. This could put him to sleep sometimes; other times it put John to sleep and Sherlock would lay in the dark, listening to John’s breath. 

“What exactly was the story about?” 

John is stretching a curl and watching as it winds back in on itself. “It was about one of the first computers. The mathematician who operated it programmed it to write poetry for the woman he loved. In the end the machine fell in love with the woman too and when it learnt that it couldn’t marry her, it spewed out enough poems for the mathematician to give her every anniversary for five hundred years, and then it committed suicide.” 

Sherlock thought about this. “Were there any owls?” 

“No. Not a one.” 

“Might have been more interesting if there were.” 

“It was a good story. I really liked it.”

“Why?” 

John leans back to smile into Sherlock’s eyes. “It was romantic.” 

“How?”

“Because the computer fell in love with the pretty lady and wrote her poetry. It’s nice to think that a machine could fall in love with a woman and try to woo her.” 

Sherlock thinks about this. “You called me a machine once.”

“That was a long time ago, and if I’d had a better understanding of the situation – if someone had been thoughtful enough to keep me advised – I wouldn’t have said it.” 

“Hmmm.” 

Sherlock is growing warm and heavy. John strokes the curls until he falls asleep. 

They both sleep deeply that night. Sherlock dreams that he has a flock of owls on strings that he carries around like balloons; John dreams that he is swimming in a sea as warm as bathwater. 

 

John Watson’s appreciation of romance seeps into Sherlock like a slow poison. John is a romantic – Sherlock had always said so – but he made no claims for romance in this relationship, nor did he seem to expect any. 

Initially he thought that romance wasn’t important to John, but now Sherlock was starting to suspect that it was, and that John had sacrificed romance for Sherlock’s companionship. 

More wounding was that evidence that John didn’t think his mate was romantic and scoffed at the notion he could be. 

So while John wasn’t observing, Sherlock, who loves to prove or disprove a theory, set about researching ways he could be romantic. 

His preferred method of research for topics like this is women’s magazines. He skips the celebrity gossip, glosses over the fashion pages and devours every syllable of the self-help and romance pages. Each one was brimming with countless ways he could be romantic. 

They were all ridiculous. Flowers, for example. Why give some one pieces of a dead plant, tied with a garish ribbon? It was all predicated on the actual act, not the flowers or the sentiment itself. 

Then there were chocolates. Obviously eating chocolates was lovely but why make a gift of them? They could buy chocolates any time. John occasionally bought chocolate biscuits. There were chocolates in the newsagents, great big rows of them which Sherlock considered lunch in some circumstances. Chocolates were practical, not romantic. Besides, no chocolate could in any way illustrate, for Sherlock, the depth and intensity of his feeling for John. 

He moved onto balloons. They were even more pointless than flowers, although maybe not if he got some helium ones, because the stores of the gas are depleting and he might not have many opportunities to experiment with it in the future. 

A few days later they were walking home from Barts, where Sherlock had looked over a corpse for Lestrade and correctly deduced the victim had died as a result of self-deliverance and not suffocation at someone else’s hand. 

John was somewhat sad while Sherlock was somewhat exasperated. 

“Honestly, you think they’d never seen a hand print before. Who would die such a way without handprints, unless it was self inflicted? I don’t know what they’re thinking. Actually I do, but I don’t understand it. Now would you like me to get you some balloons?” 

John, who was thinking about the dead person, looked like he got off a train at the wrong station. “What? Why do I want balloons?” 

“Romantic. Like the poetry computer and the bird that hoards things.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Romance! You said I’m never romantic! Balloons are romantic. I saw it in Cosmopolitan. They go with chocolates.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about but I think you should stop reading women’s magazines.” 

“Do you want balloons or not?” 

“What am I going to do with balloons?” 

Sherlock had to think for a moment. There was little purpose to balloons but he wanted to make the effort. “You could shoot them.” 

John squinted. Shooting balloons was appealing. “Do you want me to shoot balloons?” 

“This is not how this conversation is supposed to go. I’m trying to think of something romantic like that bird might do and you’re being obtuse.” 

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you want to get some balloons to shoot, fine.” 

“I don’t want to shoot balloons. I want to do something romantic.”

John laughed. “You think shooting balloons is romantic?” 

The components of this failed conversation gathered in Sherlock’s heart as a heavy damp heap in and brought him down. When they got home, he curled up on the couch and stayed there for nearly fourteen hours. No amount of coaxing, cajoling or increasingly concerned kisses from John could move him. 

“I’m not happy about leaving you alone while you’re like this,” John said the next morning before he left for work. 

Sherlock didn’t answer. He was stuck under tons of wet rags, shivering in his mind at his cold, unromantic heart. 

John worried about him all day. He tried calling three times, sent an email and seven texts. He was used to this now, Sherlock’s inability to cope with the strangest, most insignificant things that usually reflected some aspect of perceived inadequacy, but had not yet worked out how to correctly deal with it. 

On his way home John stopped for some groceries and added a few sweet things to his basket. Soft sweeties like caramels had, during previous depressions, helped lever Sherlock out of his black holes of misery. 

When he gets home the lights are all off, Sherlock has disappeared and – when John turns on the main light – a single red helium balloon is floating just inches from his face, its long ribbon tail finishing exactly at his eye line so he can see his name written clearly on the envelope attached to it. 

John plonks his groceries on the table and tears the envelope open quickly. He’s terrified Sherlock has gone off and harmed himself, or scaled the Hindu Kush, joined the merchant navy or done any number of disastrous, distant things that John hasn’t imagined yet. 

But it is none of these. Instead John Watson has just received his first ever poem, written completely for him by the one person who loves him more than he has been able to say:

 

No things come in the right size.  
Pineapples are too big for one person  
And apples are too small.   
Shirts have to be tailored.  
Lady beetles are tiny.   
Dogs don’t live long enough.  
Bed sheets never fit.   
Oceans go on forever.  
Teacups are too shallow.

But not John Watson.   
My John is perfectly proportioned.  
He can fit through windows  
under cars  
around half-opened doors  
over fences and into my arms.

He lays alongside me and everything fits.   
He is the part I was missing but failed to   
realise was vital for my performance  
until he clicked into place.   
It is  
almost

as if he was made for me. 

 

Oh, John says softly to himself. Oh! 

It is Sherlock’s handwriting, so there is no doubt as to who wrote it. It’s just – well, sentiment. Sherlock claimed he had none and here it is, lines and lines of it. John is so stunned that he reads his poem again. His shock hasn’t subsided when he finishes so he reads it a third time. 

He would have read it a fourth time but Sherlock, who has probably timed his entrance quite carefully, returns home. 

“You wrote me a poem,” John says. 

“Yes. Well, poem is probably too generous a description but I attempted to express sentiment in a form of verse.” Sherlock stands tall, hands behind his back, bracing himself for disdain or mocking. 

“It’s beautiful,” John says, and Sherlock smiles. 

“Thank you.” They stare at one another in a slightly different light.

“I didn’t know you could write poetry.” 

“I can’t. I think that’s painfully obvious. But it’s for you, not the New York Times, so I thought I could…you know, be honest. Sent-i-mental. And I hoped you wouldn’t mind that it’s not very accomplished.”

John, still clutching his poem, smiles shyly. “No one’s ever written me a poem.” 

“Idiots.” 

 

That night, to Sherlock’s surprise, he finds himself a little more adventurous with John, who in turn is a little more expressive than usual. The indicators are tiny – more grasping, more involved kisses – but possibly, Sherlock surmises, related to the poem. 

It warranted further investigation.


	2. Chapter 2

2\.   
The next day, John carries his poem in his breast pocket. He reads it once on the tube and twice at his desk in between patients. He’s not a man for gushing, romantic gestures any more than Sherlock, and he’d never had cause to wonder what it might be like to be the topic of a verse. 

He likes the sensation very much. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, desperate for a case, takes refuge on the Internet where he reads an article on a true crime website and finds an anomaly no one has considered. He then spends hours tangled in a myriad of hostile conversations with Mike Stamford, Detective Inspector Lestrade and the long suffering Mycroft.

“For the love of God,” he says to each of them, “Why is it so hard to get a body exhumed? I only want to look at the trachea. I won’t touch anything else and you can put it back almost immediately. I’ll even do it at the graveside.” 

His frustrated pleadings have no effect, and Sherlock has to accept that he may never know if, as he suspects, a young nurse died of smoke inhalation six years ago. He grows sulky and sneers at the world around him for holding tantalising facts just out of his reach.

In the mid afternoon he falls on to the couch to sulk properly but just as he closes his eyes, a ball of words bursts in his head like a poppy bud and thus John Watson becomes the topic of a second poem. 

John finds it taped to the milk when he gets home that night: 

 

Time has marked John Watson for me.

Although he came to me sturdy  
and ready to ride, my John  
has a blast mark on his  
left shoulder, a wad of ruined skin. 

I seek it out in the dark when he sleeps.   
I measure its warmth,  
I calculate the agony he courted on the army cot,  
crumpling before the morphine came. 

Sometimes it catches him if  
he moves too quickly, a hook amongst  
the silk of his muscles, snagging nerve threads.  
Sometimes it clogs with cold weather and   
My John has a shower to thaw. Hot water  
sets his blood running again. 

Time has made me fluent in John Watson.  
I would know him in the dark.   
I could be blindfolded at night in  
a forest filled with men but   
would recognise my John by touch:  
that small swirl of injury  
and his steady breath on my fingers. 

 

Sherlock watches carefully. John holds the poem in his left hand and as he reads, raises his right hand to his wounded shoulder to lightly rub the scar through his jumper. 

When he’s finished, John looks at Sherlock with a shy smile. It’s hard to know what to say, because being the centre of Sherlock’s attention in this way is very new. 

Sherlock’s worried that John’s not impressed. “Should I have got another balloon?” 

John shakes his head. “No, not at all.” He looks down at the poem again and small parts of Sherlock’s sentiment shine at him. “You’re fluent in me?” 

“Oh, yes. You’re my first language.” 

 

They retire early that night. There’s a slow fire starting in their relationship, they can both feel it. Sherlock is more demonstrative and John, never chatty in bed, finds himself talkative and eager to be an active participant in Sherlock’s loving displays. 

They push their bodies together with great urgency; John watches with glazed, adoring eyes as Sherlock holds his fingers to his lips and tenderly tastes each one, then leans in to kiss his scar over and over. You feel so good, John whispers, I love how you feel against me. Closer, darling, come here, and they stare into one another’s eyes as they align their hips and twine their legs. They rub their cocks together with perfect rhythm and as he comes, John imagines Sherlock blindfolded, moving his knowing hands over every inch of his body. 

Oh, this is love, John tells himself as he kisses Sherlock’s closed eyes afterwards.

And Sherlock can feel it on his skin and in his heart. More poems, he decides as they hold one another. We need more poems.


	3. Chapter 3

“Sherlock, I’m starving.” 

“Well, eat something.” 

John and Sherlock are standing in freezing winds at a large factory down near Hastings. It’s 10.12pm. They hired a car because Sherlock insisted they had to get there tonight so he could count the security guards and make some odd calculations that he is certain will help him solve the mystery of the four armed robberies he read about in the paper. 

They have been standing in the same place for nearly four hours. Sherlock had promised John it would take no longer than forty-five minutes but it is just so interesting. 

“There is nowhere within a five mile radius to eat,” John complains. 

His voice is strained with misery and discomfort. Sherlock hears it immediately and remembers that John has to eat regularly or he starts to flag. 

“Right,” he tells John. “I’ve got all I need. There was one of those over-lit truck stopping food places on the motorway. Will that do?” 

“I’m thinking about eating the upholstery in the car so yes, that will be fine.” 

John drives while Sherlock apparently takes notes. 

The next day, when John wakes up in their bed, he finds a wide smooth place where Sherlock has slept and a poem pinned to the pillow: 

My John suffers low pressure systems

so it is important that I keep my John fed.   
All his indicators sink and wallow like seaweed  
in an outgoing tide if he doesn’t eat.   
He needs sugar and fat and salt. 

Apricots, toast, crackling, milk in   
his tea, no sugar. A sandwich  
with the crusts on. A pie trimmed with a  
frill of pastry made from shortening. Gravy. 

My John can feed himself but  
there are times when I wish he’d  
let me angle the spoon and the softening   
ice cream into his mouth. 

He can open it like a tunnel.   
His mouth opens to accommodate  
a rabbit, a tree, a convoy of trucks.   
He sucks my fingertips when I’m difficult. 

He’s better when he eats. Those few  
seconds before food and he’s stalling,  
the lights of his eyes click down to low.  
I’m hungry, he’ll whinge, feed me.

Only I can save him. 

When John has read the poem three times, Sherlock appears with a mug of tea that grows cold as John sucks him off, his fingers pressing into his buttocks, squeezing in time to the long wet strokes.


	4. Chapter 4

John and Sherlock have been hired by a credit union to try and find investors’ money that a financier insists has been lost in the share market. 

It’s not a great case – Sherlock tagged it a 6 - but it’s mildly interesting and alleviates (somewhat) the frustration of Lestrade’s continued refusal to share the mystery of the four armed robberies.   
They are travelling home in a taxi, recreating the room where they have spoken to the financier, the man they suspect of embezzling hundreds of thousands of pounds. Sherlock can’t work out where the money has been hidden or spent so he’s creating a mental inventory of the room in which they spoke to the suspect, trying to ascertain what is out of place. So far, all the suspect’s possessions and home have failed to suggest any newly found wealth. 

“The walls were blue, painted recently.” 

“Aqua.” 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Blue. Turquoise. Indigo. What difference does it make?” 

“It makes a lot of difference if you’re decorating.” John has been married and he knows about decorating. It was, for a few weeks in his life, one of the chief topics of conversations he had with his fiancé.   
Blue, turquoise, indigo. Decorating. Styling. The suspect was married to a stylist who specialised in home décor. Sherlock thinks about decorating and recalls the shade of paint, the floor boards, the curtains and then turns to John with excited eyes.

“You are brilliant, you know that, don’t you?” 

The next day Sherlock returns to the suspect’s house and inspects the fittings more carefully. He finds expensive boutique paint, solid timber floor boards, curtains that have been made from custom designed fabric - all things that cannot be accounted for in any of the suspect’s financial records. Sherlock rightly deduces that that the offender was piling money into his wife’s business, building her portfolio and empire with money he was supposed to invest on behalf of the credit union’s clients. 

The offenders are arrested in the early afternoon. 

When John comes home he finds a poem tucked in his favourite mug: 

My John appears as a neutral palette but for me  
He is all the colours in the world.   
His eyes are the colour of faded denim.   
His hair is the colour of cashews.   
His skin is the colour of a sparrow’s beak.  
The shadows of skin in the tiny creases near his ear  
are the colours of milky tea.   
The underside of his lip is the colour of cooked rhubarb.   
The soft nests under his arms are the colour of brown sugar.   
His navel is the colour of sand on the beaches in Langkawi.  
His eyelashes are the colour of unpolished amber.   
His voice is the colour of syrup as it pours over hot pudding.  
His kisses are the colour of bluebells, daisies and tulips  
all tilting in a field the same colour as his embrace.   
His anger is the colour of freshly hacked coal.  
His sadness is the leeched grey of a faded photograph.   
His smile is the colour of the sun that lights   
up London on those few hottest days  
and blinds temporarily. 

Asleep, when he is there but somehow isn’t,  
My John is a palette smeared with paint, some colours distinct  
and some blended, no shape or reason.   
When he starts to wake he is the colour of the dawn sky   
and everything in my world is revealed  
against the light he brings.

 

John reads slowly, softly biting his lower lip. Oh, he says in a whisper. This one is slightly more personal and very new, for he and Sherlock never comment on their personal appearance in any romantic sense. John admires Sherlock physically and he likes to think that he in turn is admired, but they never say as much, not yet, not in these early stages. 

Now John knows that Sherlock notices him as keenly as he notices everything else. He loves that Sherlock notices his hair and has catalogued the colour of his eyes. He wants to be in Sherlock’s gaze and feel more of that admiration. 

They don’t even make it to the bed. John is intense, holding Sherlock against the sofa as he does the thing they love, pushing his lips close to his ear to whisper, I want to be all colours for you. All colours, all the time. 

Afterwards they lay close and hold each other’s eyes in a lazy, satisfied gaze. John strokes Sherlock’s face, fingers halting occasionally to admire the planes of his cheek bones or the smooth thick arch of his eyebrows and presently falls asleep, his hand loose at Sherlock’s chin. 

There are things to read, chemicals to burn and observe but Sherlock is quite content to lie there and watch over John. It’s funny, he muses, how saying something sentimental fills you with the urge to act sentimental. Funny, too, how that process acts as an invisible glue that binds you both more closely together.


	5. Chapter 5

John’s breast pocket is now stretched to capacity. He buys a filofax from Ryman’s and files Sherlock poems in chronological order. 

He reads each one again as he clips the poems in place, stopping occasionally to hover over a favourite line. It is an extraordinary thrill, to read about yourself from another person’s perspective. John can’t wait for the next one. 

He’d hoped to keep his file private – it’s a little embarrassing – but was hardly surprised that Sherlock snuffed it out within hours. 

“I see you’ve started an anthology,” Sherlock says nonchalantly as he flicks through the morning papers. 

John, pouring a cup of tea before he leaves for work, gives him a shy smile. “Well, no one’s ever written poems for me before. I want to keep them safe.” 

Sherlock looks up quickly. “Do you? Why?” 

“Of course, because I like them! They’re – well. You write nice things.”

“Is that why you like them? Because I say nice things?” 

“No. Well, yes.” John smiles with clear eyes and holds Sherlock’s gaze. “I do, but - they’re true. I mean, they read like you’re being truthful. They sound true. And – well, we don’t talk like that, do we?” John takes a sip. “They make me feel very …. important. I mean, important in your eyes. ” 

“Yes, that’s the intention.” Sherlock can only meet his eyes for a second before he must look away. “So…are you keeping them?” 

“Absolutely!”

He looks back quickly, eyes lit with interest, but all he says is, “Oh.”.

This is one of the grey areas of sentimentality for Sherlock. He has many possessions that are meaningful to him, but – save a couple of random, hastily scrawled notes from John and a shopping list John wrote a few days before Sherlock leapt from the roof of St Barts – none of his sentimental possessions are related to anyone else. He doesn’t expect anyone else to keep things he gives them; he sees no reasons to keep cards or photographs, unless they pertain to John. 

Now, it seems, John is keeping the poems, and in a very respectful way. It’s strange and rather thrilling. Sherlock files this interesting development to ponder and dissect later. He has a more pressing inquiry now.

“What did you do with the diary pages from the filofax?” 

“I’m using it as notepaper at work. Why? Do you want it?” 

“No. I just wondered what you did with it. It was an absorbing thought.”

John tilts his eyebrows. “Absorbing?” 

“Well, you’ve never had a filofax or any kind of paper diary in the time I’ve known you, so I had to eliminate the unlikely to work out where you’d leave it.” Sherlock takes John through the myriad of possibilities available to him in the disposal of loose diary pages. 

John is rapt, leaning over the table on his folded arms, finger hooked through the cup handle, watching Sherlock deduce something unimportant with the same vigour he analyses crimes scenes.   
“See, this is why I share your bed,” John tells him when he’s finished. 

“Because I can – actually, why?” 

John stands up, drains his tea quickly and leans over to kiss the side of Sherlock’s face. “Because you’re brilliant. And very sexy.” 

He wants to tell him more, something that mirrors the vast impact the poems have on him, but his feelings have no shape or order yet so he declares his intention to get dressed quickly, lest he is late for work. 

“Stupid sick people,” Sherlock murmurs into his collar. “Actually, could you maybe encourage one of the more unstable ones to commit some difficult crimes?” 

“No. Won’t Lestrade let you help with the robbery?” 

Sherlock makes a face that illustrates irritation perfectly. “No, the fool. Said I might ruin months of surveillance. If I could just see what they had so far, I’d solve it in seconds.” 

He follows John to the bedroom and snarls about Scotland Yard while John dresses. 

“Promise me you won’t do anything inappropriate.” John has grabbed his bag and is about to fly out the door but halts for a second when Sherlock smiles with surprising innocence. 

“You wouldn’t like me any more if I started behaving appropriately.” 

“True. Well, I don’t know, wait until I get home and I’ll see if I can talk him around.” 

“No. I’m going to start pestering him as soon as you’re gone. But don’t think I don’t appreciate your good intentions.” He pulls at John’s jacket to bring his face in for one last kiss.

“Go easy on Gavin,” John whispers, and winks at Sherlock before he flies down the stairs. 

When he gets to the surgery, he unpacks a few things from his bag that he likes to have close – his silver pen, his phone, an apple. The filofax is tucked into a small pocket by itself deep in his bag. He strokes the top of the small folder and once again John is struck by the incongruity of Sherlock writing poetry for him. It’s just so … romantic. John expected a lot of things from his relationship with Sherlock, but not this. Not sentiment, not this earnest interest in wooing him. 

He looks at the filofax, checks his watch and quickly pulls the book out for a quick hit. 

A hot flare of affection bursts in his belly when he opens it, for Sherlock has not only inspected the slim anthology, he’s added a new poem:

I leave things  
(poem things, poems of John)   
around our house for John  
(my John)  
because I like to think  
of his face when he finds them.   
That somewhere in my day  
separate from him  
his beautiful face will  
Refoveate  
Illuminate  
Ruminate  
Adumbrate  
all because he thinks of me  
and is reminded that all  
I ever think of is him.

Oh! 

Oh, Sherlock. 

John smiles as the poem predicted he would, smiles at the sentiment and smiles at the thought that all Sherlock might think of is him. 

There is no time to read the poem again – there’s someone outside with a blocked nose and streaming eyes who has been waiting days for an appointment and has been squeezed in ahead of the rest of the day’s patients – but John manages another read just after 11am and two more considered reads over lunch. 

He also manages to use ‘refoveate’ in an otherwise dull diagnosis that afternoon.


	6. Chapter 6

John has taken a few days off, partly to attend to some tiresome administrative matters and but mostly to assist Sherlock, who has finally been invited to help Scotland Yard on the mystery of the four armed robberies. 

This morning they walk through the park to St Barts, where Sherlock plans to use the superior microscope and check some fibre analysis with the lab. 

Their walk was pleasant. Sherlock wished he had some nuts for the squirrels and said as much to John. 

John raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you cared for squirrels.” 

“Squirrels are the ninja of the unwanted, John. Look at them! They make no sound, they can cram grams of vegetable matter in their mouths and they move so fast that it can be difficult to see them sometimes.” 

“Ninja of the unwanted? What?” 

“The unwanted animals people are always complaining about or shooing away. Pigeons, squirrels, rats, crows and the like. People are idiots. Have you ever seen a rat with its young? They’re extraordinary parents. I’d like to see humans treat their young as tenderly as rats do.” 

“I’ve never seen rats and their young, no. And I don’t really want to so don’t bring any home.”

“Next time we’re in a drain I’ll find you a rat nest and you’ll change your mind.” 

“No doubt.” 

A large male squirrel with no fear of tourists or locals comes bolting down the path towards them, stopping a few feet shy and watching them carefully. 

“Look at this suspect,” John says. “Sizing us up and seeing which one of us he’d rob if it were night.” 

“Oh, it’d definitely be you.” 

“Me?” John laughs. “I can hold my own with a bloody squirrel.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not London squirrels you can’t. That’s why you need me.” 

This interesting conversation was cut short by a phone call from Lestrade, reminding Sherlock that he would meet him at the hospital. 

As they walked through the main entrance of the grand hospital, John shared some idle observations about squirrel tails – how they look so thick but in close view are actually composed of very fine, strategically coloured fur. 

Sherlock agrees. “They look after their tails. That’s another thing I like about them. They’re clean and neat. Actually I like that about you too. I’ve never seen you looking untidy.” 

“So basically you think I’m like a squirrel.” 

“In some respects I think you’re like a squirrel, yes. Actually I could make a Venn diagram about you and squirrels if” – 

“Shut up now. Enough squirrels. How long do you think we’ll be here? I have to be at the bank at two.” 

Sherlock bristles briefly, regains his composure. “At least two hours, depending on whether I can get Molly to rush the nylon fibres through for me.” 

***

A little later Sherlock is seated before the large microscope while John is leaning against the bench, facing out. Mike Stamford stands nearby and he and John chat; Molly has just returned from the other lab with a series of test results she wants to double check. 

John and Mike have decided to see one of the Six Nations Rugby matches. 

“Will you come, Sherlock?” Mike asks.

Sherlock doesn’t look up from the microscope. “I’d rather drive knitting needles through my ears.” 

“That’s a yes,” John says with a pleasant smile. “Molly. You want to come to the Rugby with us?” 

“Oh! I suppose – well, yes, in London?” 

“Twickenham!” Mike says. 

Just then, with great providence John thought, Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived. He is ostensibly interested in Sherlock’s lab results but privately interested in being in the same room as Molly, if only for a few minutes. 

He says his hellos, concentrating on being relaxed, friendly, but all the while noticing the way the light shines from Molly’s hair and the length of her pretty fingers. 

John watches him closely. He doesn’t need Sherlock’s skills of observation to see that Greg is smitten. Perhaps an outing like this could be the perfect opportunity to advance a happy coupling. 

“Greg! We’re going to Rugby! Want to come?” 

“Who are we seeing?” 

“England and France.” 

Greg looks at Sherlock, who has given given any indication that he knows Greg is here. He addresses Greg without moving his eyes from the lens while simultaneously lifting his phone from his pocket.

“Yes I’m going and yes I know about Rugby.” 

“So,” John says brightly, “Mike’s coming, Molly’s coming and Cranky’s coming. You interested?” 

“Yeah! It’ll be great. Tell you what, I’ll buy the beer if you can make him wear a scarf.” 

“Great. I’ll book the tickets this afternoon.”

Sherlock is fiddling with his phone. “I’ve just booked them.” 

There is some general discussion amongst them all – well, that was quick, how much do we owe you, can I pay when I see you - and Sherlock still doesn’t look up. “No need. I have a friend who owes me a favour.” 

Everyone looks at him and only then does he look up. 

“Well, when I say a friend, I mean a brother who is a lifetime member of the English Rugby Union. But don’t worry. He has to destabilise the government in some crumbling third world country and won’t be able to make it. In any case he’s not invited.” 

“Shouldn’t you maybe ask him if wants to come?” Molly asks gently. Greg looks at her neat slim ankles folded under her chair. So feminine. 

Sherlock pretends to think for a moment. “No,” he says with dramatic emphasis, and Molly and Greg exchange amused glances. John watches briefly, wondering what they would be like as a couple. Sherlock breaks his reverie.

“John, what time did you say you had to be at the bank?”

“Oh bugger!” He has twenty minutes to get to Kensington to speak with his bank about closing a joint account. “I have to go. So – see you all Saturday week, except you” –and he taps Sherlock’s shoulder gently – “I’ll see you at home, then.” 

Sherlock has returned his attention to his microscope. “Watch out for the squirrels in the park.” 

“What?” 

“Squirrels. They’re unpredictable beasts.” 

“I’m confident I could preserve my safely amongst squirrels.” 

“Not if a whole lot of them gang up on you, you can’t.” 

“Alright. You need to put the microscope away and go have a lie down. I’ll see you at home.” 

 

John is just about to get on the tube when he gets his first text poem. It starts with a single line, then each couplet sent is sent separately at precise sixty second intervals: 

I shepherd the squirrels for John.

I move them from his path  
When we walk to St Barts

Because, like every living creature  
The London squirrels want to feature

In the romance that is my John:  
His life, his story, his pictures, his song,

But I see them off, because obviously  
John only has room in his life for me. 

Oh! John smiles broadly as he steps off the train. Rhyme! He texts Sherlock immediately. 

Have I told you how much I love your poems? I love your poems. 

And as an afterthought he texts

Thank you for protecting me from the ninja of the unwanted. 

And as another afterthought

xxx

John reads the phone poem again while he waits to speak with the bank manager. Afterwards, released from his last link to Mary and making his way home to Sherlock, John realises the frivolous squirrel poem is the first poem that reflects a specific time they have spent together. 

John smiles to himself. Our relationship is becoming a poem.


	7. Chapter 7

If he’d kept notes and made charts, Sherlock would now have unassailable scientific proof: poetry makes sex better. 

That night, after his successful squirrel poem, he is burying his face deep in John’s crotch, inhaling the heavy smokey scent of his balls and rubbing his cheek along the delicate Watson shaft. John’s moans are short and deep; his movement gives away a lot more than his voice.

In their early days Sherlock felt like a trespasser when he touched John so intimately but now, confident and adoring, he feels growing ownership of John’s body, and with that comes a greed specific to a close couple, the rigid unwillingness to share. 

He cups a buttock in each large hand and presses John closer to his face. 

John is giggling. “What are you doing down there?” 

“I’m in love with your foreskin.” 

There’s more giggles and small sighs. “My foreskin loves you too. Especially your tongue.” 

They were ridiculous claims, Sherlock knew, and he marvelled how love made them legitimate. 

***

The next day one of the prime suspects of the mysterious armed robberies is found dead in a warehouse. John and Sherlock are summoned quickly at 6am and as he dresses, John finds another poem folded neatly in his underpants:

My John’s foreskin   
Is a miracle for our times.   
It is constructed from membrane   
Sourced from angels who harvest  
The precious fabric from a rare lotus  
They grow in Eden.  
There is no pink to compare.   
Other flowers fold their petals and weep  
That they cannot mimic the tender  
Blush of my John’s foreskin  
Which expands perfectly to allow  
Access to one begging finger or  
The tip of my tongue.  
It disappears into a plisse scarf  
Of the finest silk so that I may be visited with Watson pleasure.   
Delicate wrap with sealing sap  
My John’s foreskin has a nap like nubuck  
A frail worn leather hiding  
His beautiful sex from the world  
Peeling back for me like forbidden fruit. 

John knew it was intended as light hearted, an in-joke for them both, but its affect was serious. 

***

In the taxi on the way to the warehouse Sherlock is wholly focused on the new crime scene; their only conversation is about the latest development. 

Up until now, all four suspects had been under close surveillance but no one – not even Sherlock – had guessed where they were squirreling the money they were stealing. Now, early morning and one man dead, every aspect of everything Sherlock knows about this crime is folding rapidly through his mind. He is very excited. 

So is John, but about different things. The latest poem is starting to work its magic - plisses scarf, he thinks over and over - but he knows well enough that now is not the time or place to discuss it.

The victim lies in a corner, although John and Sherlock can’t see him when they walk through the icy warehouse towards the large circle of police officers and forensic staff. 

The sad corpse, when he is finally visible, is the only person of interest to Sherlock amongst this large group of chattering people. John offers the greetings and hears out Lestrade’s scant briefing.

Sherlock doesn’t listen. Everything he needs to know comes in a continuous wave of words and symbols as he studies the victim. 

The dead man has taken one substantial blow to the face and lies flat on his back, eyes fixed at the ceiling while small streams of blood and pale fluid dry on his face. 

Sherlock walks around the victim while he snaps latex gloves over his hands, stopping at the victim’s head to carefully lift it from a heavy pool of congealed blood. John crouches down next to him. 

“Fractured skull,” he says. “Depressed fracture, probably.”

Sherlock nods, half standing to move to the victim’s feet, where he examines the dead man’s shoes and the concrete floor where he stood before he died. 

After two minutes Sherlock stands back up and unpeels his gloves. 

“It’s not a murder.” 

Everyone looks at him. 

“Manslaughter at best. Would have been common assault if the victim were sober. There’s been an altercation for sure, but nothing serious. He’s got a broken nose so it looks a lot more savage than it actually is.”

“But he’s dead,” Donavan says, almost like a plea. 

“Yes. He’s ice cold and not moving and all brain activity seems to have ceased. That’s a fair assessment.” 

Sally keeps her lips pressed tight until she’s regained her composure and can speak civilly. “How did he die?” 

“He’s been punched in the face, then fallen backwards and fractured his skull. That a potentially fatal injury – am I right, Doctor Watson?” 

John nods. “The brain just keeps bleeding and even if you treat it immediately, chances are the damage is already done, so the victim falls into a coma pretty quickly. This fella fell hard. I can smell alcohol on him – you say it’s connected?” he asks Sherlock. 

“Yes, obviously. There’s no slip marks here. The blow has knocked him out cold, he’s fallen like a tree and cracked his skull. How long would he lived?” 

“Impossible to say. He could have actually bled to death, died from the actual brain injury or he could have suffocated.” 

“Approximately?” 

John hates approximate diagnosis. He shrugs his shoulders. “Fifteen minutes if he was suffocating, two, maybe three hours if he died from the cranial injury.” He holds the cold head with his fingertips and turns it slightly. “For what it’s worth, I think he died from a combination of all three.” 

Sherlock nods, considers two dozen things in the space of six seconds, then strides around until he finds a small nest of beer cans and cigarette butts in between several large crates. He tucks his hands in his pockets, for he has the evidence he needs, then turns back and addresses Lestrade directly: They’ve been drinking. Obvious. They’ve been called here for a specific purpose and ended up drinking, so they were waiting for a long time. There’s been a fight, he says, not a deliberate act of violence but an argument that ended with a single blow. The victim was at least on friendly terms with his assailant. They’ve sat together discussed commonalities, which is what lead to a disagreement. The offender hasn’t meant to kill him. 

Sherlock interrupts his conclusion when he remembers something important. “Does the press know about this?” 

Lestrade checks with Donovan. “No,” she says. “We don’t issue our alerts until we’re certain the coverage won’t hinder the investigation. Why?” 

“Then you’ve got time to find the offender. This is no random place for two drinking buddies. They’ve been here deliberately - to check the money they’ve stolen, maybe add to it or subtract a sum, although I expect they were waiting on a delivery. The man who hit him has walked away – or maybe been called away – and left our subject here to wake up, or get up, if he was still conscious.” 

“He could have been conscious for up to twenty minutes,” John says. 

“Precisely. When our man doesn’t hear from the victim, he’s going to start looking for him.” Sherlock kneels down again and searches through the dead man’s coat. “Mobile – oh, look at that. Five messages already.” Sherlock reads them in a singsong voice. “ ‘U OK mate’, ‘call me asap’ ‘call me you twat’ – there’s your manslaughter suspect. Start with hospitals closest to here, because that’s where he’ll be looking. And while some of you are arresting him, the rest of you can start going through all those containers. Look for the ones with the most locks and fixtures, maybe even container s within containers, because that’s where the money will be.” 

Donavan and Lestrade look at each other excitedly. The money? That is exactly the missing link the police are looking for. 

Sherlock hands Lestrade the phone and smiles down to John, who still crouches over the corpse. “You want to get some breakfast? There’s a fantastic builder’s caff about fifteen minutes’ walk from here.   
It’s actually run by a builder. Best cup of tea in London, outside our kitchen.“ 

John slowly lifts himself to his feet, Sherlock bids the police a cursory farewell.

Case closed. Now John can focus on the poem. 

***

When they get to the café John stands in front the table to remove his coat; Sherlock glances quickly at the neatly zipped package of John’s jeans. It was a fleeting thing, not designed to provoke a reaction but when he looked at John’s face he saw an indefinable expression he had never seen before - a cocktail of lights and suggestions mingled with desire and some base notes of pride and love. 

John eats a big breakfast and encourages Sherlock to pick at the toast and bacon. They each have two mugs of milky tea that are as good as Sherlock suggested. 

“I liked your poem,” John says into his mug. 

Sherlock says nothing but answers with a little self-satisfied smirk. 

John tries again. “They were interesting things to say.”

“Well. I think about you that way sometimes.” 

Feet shuffle under the table and John’s English brogues are captured inside Sherlock’s Italian patent leather. 

***

In the cab home they spend their time making eyes at each other and talking in almost slapstick innuendo. 

They barely close the door upstairs when John grabs Sherlock and pulls him over close, mouth open and huffing. He takes Sherlock’s hand and rubs it over the urgent swelling in his pants. Touch me, he wants to say, touch the things you like about me, but can’t so instead relies, like all lovers, on his scent and heavy eyes. 

“You really are insatiable,” Sherlock tells him in a voice filled with admiration. 

John nods, tongue soft on his bottom lip. “The poem,” he says quickly, and Sherlock understands. He lets John’s hand guide him around the zip, lets John press his fingers over his cock, squeezing gently around the celebrated tip. 

“Dealer’s choice this morning.” Sherlock whispers in his ear. “Mouth or hand?”

“Mouth,” John says instantly. He’s had hundreds of blowjobs but never anticipated one as desperately as this. He moans loudly for Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, about to mount the stairs with a tray of cake and tea, makes a dear little face and retreats gracefully to her flat. 

A short time later Sherlock is still on his knees, pressing soft kisses against the deflating penis and rubbing his lips gently on the foreskin. John combs the thick curls with his fingers and smiles with great contentment. He feels handsome, admired, immersed in love, all these things separately and tangled at once. 

Sherlock looks up at him with bright eyes. He has a new kind of smile now, one that John has only seen in the last few weeks. “I hope it’s my turn now.” 

“I think it might be.” John almost adds my love, my darling, some epithet that illustrates more clearly what Sherlock is to him, but bites his lip at the last second. 

“What were you going to call me?” Sherlock wonders. They’re playing now, John tickling his ears, Sherlock tenderly smearing soft kisses on John’s belly as he watches him. 

“Not sure. Darling. Sweetheart. My love. Which one do you loathe least?” 

“I have no idea. Actually, they all have some context while we’re – well, in flagrante delicto, don’t they?” 

“Okay. Dealer’s choice for you too. You get to choose not only how I get you off, but what I’ll call you when you come.” 

“I’ll take your mouth. And surprise me.” 

John restores his trousers just enough to guide Sherlock to the couch. He holds his eyes, loosening the expensive clothes while he watches his face. 

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Sherlock observes. 

It’s serious business, John agrees, kneeling before Sherlock and tenderly kissing the miniscule folds of his foreskin. I love your foreskin too, my love, John assures him. He watches Sherlock as he rolls his mouth over the tip, thrilled by Sherlock’s evident pleasure, the way he tips his face back to catch his breath, thrilled at the way he will then snatch another look, watching John with dreamy grey eyes.

And Sherlock, when he looks down he sees John – John, who makes him tea, who talks with him every day, who is always concerned for his wellbeing, who slips a protective arm over him in his sleep, who follows him to crime scenes in case he has to shoot anyone – John, staring at him with eyes heavy with love. 

From a distance this kind of rot always appeared to Sherlock to be useless, the perfunctory responses of animals who knew no better. Close up, here now in the epicenter of John’s adoration and attentions, being called darling, it’s so intense and so unlikely as to be sacred.


	8. Chapter 8

***Warning flags for homophobic language***

 

Sherlock would never admit it, but he was actually looking forward to the Rugby, mostly because he could watch John in an environment he had never seen him, but also because there would be hot chips, which were for Sherlock, who had eaten a surprising variety of hot greasy food all over the world, the greatest form of nourishment available to mankind. 

Lestrade graciously agreed to be their designated driver. He collects John and Sherlock just after five, and the three swung by to Molly’s place to collect her along the way. 

There had been some calamity at Molly’s house earlier that afternoon. 

“Sorry, I’m nearly ready! I just have to try and get Toby settled - he’s never like this!” she wailed when she answered the door. 

In the distance her cat Toby can be seen half way up the curtains, swinging lightly from side to side as he watched them all with enormous, mad eyes. 

Sherlock has limited resources for cats like Toby. “He looks perfectly normal. Get your coat.” 

“Is he alright?” Greg asked with genuine concern. 

Molly is awkwardly wrestling her arms into a red coat. “He just won’t stay still! He’s been jumping all over the furniture, he’s messed up my bed three times, knocked over a vase and then the washing, and now he won’t get off the curtains. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” 

John, who has a private penchant for misbehaving cats, grins and stretches a little so he can get a better look at the lightly swaying Toby. 

“Toby!” Sherlock calls to the cat. “Get off the curtains or John Watson will shoot you.” 

“SHERLOCK!” everyone says loudly and with great disapproval. 

“What? I wouldn’t really ask you to do that. I’m just trying to encourage him to … do what ever Molly wants him to do.” 

Greg speaks assuredly, as if he diagnoses mental cats all the time. “He sounds like he’s bored.” 

“Sherlock or Toby?” John asks with an angelic face. 

This starts a general discussion about the way cats and Sherlock misbehave when they’re bored. 

“Look, can we give him a jigsaw puzzle or something and GO?” Sherlock, rolling his eyes and pacing, is impatient for hot chips. 

They leave the irresponsible Toby swinging on the curtains and in the car John suggests that Molly should invest in a sort of cat entertainment centre.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asks him. 

Lestrade knows. “You mean those things that have different levels and scratching posts and hidey holes and things.” 

“Oh, I’ve seen them,” Molly says from the front, “I’d love to get one but I’m useless at putting those things together.” 

“It’d be easy to build from scratch,” John says. Sherlock watches a gentle slyness rise in John’s eyes as he continues. “Actually, I could build you one but I don’t have the right tools.” 

“I’ve got the tools,” Greg says ever so casually from the front seat. 

“How do you know how to build cat things?” Sherlock wants to know of John.

“I was in the army. Did I tell you about that? We built all kinds of shelters and buildings in Khandar. Basic dwellings, shelters – all part of general training.”

“Were cat gymnasiums popular amongst the villagers?” 

“Shut up. So Greg, can I borrow your tools to build Toby a cat thing?” 

“Sure. Actually I could help, if you wanted.” 

“Oh! That would be great!” Molly beams at him. 

John mischievously asks Sherlock if he’d like to help, but Sherlock has tired of Toby and has slunk back on his seat, eyes closed, to contemplate John’s matchmaking effort. His answer is brief.   
“I’d rather you set fire to my hair and stamped it out.” 

Mike Stamford is waiting near gate three. He stands with a boy about eleven in a Harlequin jersey, a reserved boy who has a mop of loose curls and thick glasses.

“Hullo Ryan!” John says with great cheer. “I didn’t know you were coming.” 

The boy is pitifully shy but makes an effort to return the greeting.

Mike rests his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Sherlock texted me during the week to tell me there were enough seats.” 

Everyone looks at Sherlock and John smiles. “Did you now?” 

“Obviously,” he answers curtly. “Follow me.” 

John had thought they would have good seats. He wasn’t expecting that they would have a corporate box. There is great appreciation as everyone admires the comfort, the privacy and the excellent view of the pitch. 

A young man in a cheap shirt and a clip-on bow tie opens the door. “Good evening, Mr Holmes. Can I get anyone a drink or snacks?” 

Sherlock is succinct. “I want the largest plate of hot chips you can prepare, and a bowl of tomato sauce on the side. The rest of you should order whatever you want. They have hot things on buns and drinks and the sorts of processed foodstuffs peculiar to sporting events. It all goes on Mycroft’s bill, and he has more money than he needs, so eat up.”

Soon the warm box smells of chips, beer, hamburgers and cooked sausage. Everyone talks and laughs except Sherlock, who likes to concentrate on chips when he has them. He starts in the centre where the chips are heaped, eats until he reached the surface of the bowl, then works his way around the remaining circle of chips in a counter clockwise direction. (Other times he likes to lay them all out side-by-side, salt them individually before consuming them one by one, but that requires the chips to be extremely hot, as well as a large clean table.)

Ryan is sitting in front of Sherlock. Interesting, Sherlock thinks as he dips a chip in the sauce. (He hates sauce poured over the chips, preferring to dip one side and one side only of the chip before eating it whole.) He once overheard Mike explain to Molly that Ryan had been the target of school bullies. Sherlock had no advice and no great interest, but he empathised privately, for he too had been bullied mercilessly at Ryan’s age. Problem is, there is no cure unless you relocate the boy to another school and that, Sherlock knew personally, doesn’t always work. He observes the boy munching doggedly on a hamburger, and feels sadness for him. 

Sherlock’s attention waivers in and out of his environment - the others’ conversations, John’s happiness amongst their friends and the pleasing degree of crispness of his chips, but Ryan is emitting the loudest signal. Sherlock can see in the boy’s fidgeting and occasional nod of his head that he wants to tell Sherlock something but is having difficulty summoning his courage. 

Sherlock waits. 

Just before the teams run out, Ryan turns around and says quietly, “These are great seats.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees in between bushels of chips. “It’s nice to be out of the rain.” 

The boy takes a deep breath and steels himself. “I’ve read all your blog. It’s awesome. I’m trying to memorise the 243 kinds of ash.” 

Sherlock’s face softens and he gives Ryan one of his rare, genuine smiles. 

“See?” he says to John, poking him with a saucy finger and speaking with a full mouth, “People read my blog! That’s the trouble with England today. There simply aren’t enough splendid young people like Ryan looking to better themselves.” 

It was a fantastic game. England, as they all predicted, won easily. Molly had three beers, Sherlock kept eating chips until his trousers felt a bit tight, and Mike and Ryan hugged each time the home team scored a try. John had three beers and two whiskeys; he and Lestrade were avid spectators and made loud criticisms of the referee. 

Sherlock wondered if there was a poem in that for John but inspiration for the next verse came from a very different source. 

 

After the game they had to inch carefully along with the crowd until they reached the front gates. Ryan and Mike had travelled by train and would be walking a mile or two to Richmond to avoid the crowds at the Twickenham train station. 

“Walk off some of those chips too,” Mike smiled. 

At that moment a group of three boys, fourteen or maybe fifteen, walked towards them, jeering and catcalling. Ryan seems to shrivel before them. 

“Oh, looky looky!” one of them calls. “It’s Ryan Stamfuck out with his fat dad!” 

The boys continue hurling childish, hellish insults at Ryan and the group in general. The boys have no fear, no embarrassment.

Emotions in the group are mixed. Mike speaks to his son quietly– ignore them, just ignore them – while Molly stares with great distaste. Lestrade wants to pull them into line but knows what a fine line he walks in addressing three unaccompanied children. John wants to smack the three of them around the head and make them do one hundred push ups each. 

But, of course, it is Sherlock who observes them as one might watch an abcess rupture, before he moves forward to defend his blog’s number one reader. 

He stares down each boy for a few satisfying seconds, lets his steel gaze fall on the ringleader and watches the boy’s reaction before he lets him have it. 

“Do you still wet the bed? Because you did for a long time, didn’t you, two or three years after your parents were divorced. But you have a new stepfather now – and a new sibling! No, actually, TWO new siblings! Must be pretty crowded for you at home. Mmm. Hard to get mum’s attention, and your stepfather would naturally prefer the new additions to the family. And of course don’t see your biological father anymore. Otherwise why would you spend so much time and energy tormenting a bright boy who has a father who clearly dotes on him?” 

The head bully withers. “Fuck you, yer fag,” he says with a squeaking voice.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warns. 

“What? I’ve only just got started. What? Why are you all glaring at me? If he’s old enough to wander around a football stadium abusing people, he’s old enough to be deduced. So are you,” he says to the two friends who are looking nervously around them, trying to find the quickest escape route. 

An adult man, father to one of the other boys, is pushing through the crowd, calling one of them. 

Sherlock fixes his gaze to the second boy and speaks with sarcastic sweetness. “Oh good, a supervising adult. Now we can see if you’re as emotionally damaged as your friend”. 

“SHERLOCK,” Lestrade says. “They’re children.” 

“Technically yes, but in practice, no, they’re not. They’re young thugs who no one is taking the time to correct. I’m helping them” – 

“What’s the problem?” the father says warily as he approaches. 

“Nothing, dad, let’s just GO,’ the second boy whines. 

Dad tops Sherlock’s height by perhaps an inch and sizes up to him. “Who exactly are you? What’s going on here?” 

John moves imperceptibly to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock lifts his chin and meets the father’s glare.

“Your appalling son is part of a criminal enterprise that is bullying my friend Ryan. I am assisting the three of them by explaining to them exactly what kind of morons they are and why they should leave Ryan alone. Problem?” 

“Sherlock,” John says quietly. 

The father of the boys splutters. “My son is not a bully!” 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Of course he is. Look at the way he rolls his sleeves. Watch the way he positions himself next to the head of his pack. Yes, you pair of lickspittles – and here Sherlock jabs his finger at the others - “you’re his accessories, nothing more.”

“Shut your mouth!” the enraged father spits. “My son is not a bully and you certainly have no right to speak to him like this! 

Sherlock is at his regal best. “I have every right to respond to anyone who challenges the safety of my friends, you tedious accountant. Pity you don’t police your own business as obsessively as you police everyone else’s. And you can ask any of these people here” – Sherlock sweeps his hand elegantly amongst his friends – “who just witnessed these ugly rodents abusing Ryan. Who, I might add, is a dear friend of mine, as is his father. Now if you’d prefer not to have a bully for a son, I’d suggest you read a parenting manual or do whatever thing people like you do to cure your horrible children and ensure they LEAVE RYAN ALONE.” 

“Sherlock,” everyone says, except Ryan, who is beaming at him. 

“I’m going to call the police,” the father growls. 

“Excellent idea! A short sharp shock would do these three a world of good, although of course, it might be too late for them, depending on how stupid they are. In my experience, intervention can be enormously beneficial up to about the age of twenty one. After that - well, look at the rate of recidivism in our current prison population. Oh look, there’s a couple of constables just over there! Lestrade, do you know them? Call them over and we can get these boys arrested.” He turns to the terrified boys with a kind face. “It’s for your own good. You’ll thank me one day.” 

He is interrupted by John’s firm, steady hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock,” John says gently, “We won’t be calling any constables. I think you’ve made your point.” 

The father is angry at his son, angry at Sherlock and angry at what he knows is the right moral position. He wisely chooses not to take it out on Sherlock and turns to John instead. 

“And what are you? His nursemaid? I know who you are. I’ve seen you pair in the papers. You follow him everywhere, don’t you? What kind of poof are yer?” 

Sherlock swells with fury. He is about to launch into a enraged, detailed explanation about the different shades of sexuality but John, full of warm greasy food, beer, whiskey and a satisfying England win, is barely moved. He smiles benignly and firms his grip on his partner’s shoulder. 

“I’m Sherlock’s poof,” he says happily. “Now take your kid in hand, tell their parents to do the same and keep away from Ryan.” 

Sherlock sniffs haughtily. “Yes. Or John Watson will shoot you.” 

“SHERLOCK”, everyone says again except Molly, who despite her best efforts, bursts into girlish sniggers that she tries to conceal behind Lestrade’s shoulder. 

The group stands and watches the chastened boys and the dad walk away as quickly as they can. 

“Too much?” Sherlock asks with genuine curiousity, and everyone laughs except Ryan. Shy, awkward Ryan who has no friends and can barely raise the courage to speak to the bus driver, opens his arms and launches himself around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock is not a great fan of spontaneous affection but he can feel how earnest this hug is and gingerly pats the boy’s soft hair. 

“Thank you,” he says to Sherlock over and over. 

 

On the way home, Sherlock explains in forensic detail the pathology of John’s sexuality. Lestrade shoots sympathetic glances to John in the rear view mirror. 

“…although strictly speaking, John is perfectly bisexual and would likely fall straight in the centre of the Kinsey chart.” 

“Oh,” Molly squeaks. 

“The definition of bisexuality has been corroded in popular usage to be synonymous with promiscuity and unfaithfulness, but that is ignorant and preposterous. I can’t fathom why people assume that choosing from a mixed pool of potential partners automatically causes infidelity when bisexual people are no less committed to lasting relationships than heterosexual or homosexual people.” 

“No one cares,” John hisses at him.

“That doesn’t mean they don’t need to know. What? It’s actually extremely interesting.” He is unblinking, earnest, utterly guileless and for a second John is filled with crippling, protective love. 

“So Molly,” Lestrade says hopefully to change the subject, “Can we come and build Toby a play centre next weekend?”

*** 

“You are impossible,” John scolds as they climb the stairs to 221b. 

“Yes. I truly am. I am the cross you must bear. Now tell me again: What kind of poof are yer?” Sherlock mimics the gruff father perfectly. 

John pretends to ignore him as he unlocks their door but once inside he walks Sherlock down the hall, loosening his coat and smiling. “I’m Sherlock’s poof,” he says lustily. 

All that beer and whiskey means that John’s not quite as robust as usual but it doesn’t mean he’s not up for some playful groping and coarse whispers. He sighs when he feels Sherlock’s careful hand easing into his trousers, sighs as his flaccid cock is cradled in safe hands, smiles as he settles into his pillow to enjoy Sherlock bucking against him, looking after his own pleasure but keeping John close, their clothes and shoes dropping to the floor one by one. Sherlock takes his time, comes comfortably over John’s belly and cleans him up with his shirt. They wind themselves together and John smiles as he drifts off, Sherlock rocking their bodies very gently into the heavy tide of sleep. 

The next morning John wakes and makes an immediate vow never to drink again before struggling to the bathroom on two stiff feet. When he returns to their bed, he finds this taped to a freshly made cup of tea, alongside a tall glass of water and two paracetomol tablets on his bedside table: 

What kind of bird is John Watson?   
He is a kestrel, wings flat against the east wind.  
What kind of plant is John Watson?   
He is the thorny thistle that draws blood when you least expect it.   
What kind of cat is John Watson?   
He is a Scottish fold, asleep in his armchair.   
What kind of dog is John Watson?   
He is a Wheaton Terrier. You can tell by the way he stands.   
What kind of sea creature is John Watson?   
He is a crab, scuttling along the floors of noisy seas.   
What kind of land creature is John Watson?   
He is a tiger with monstrous paws.   
What part of the ocean is John Watson?   
He is the maelstrom of Corryvreken and will consume you in seconds. 

What kind of man is John Watson?   
He is all these things in a jumper  
Curing patients of some tiresome malady.  
He is all these things in a checked shirt,  
Pouring hot water and milk for our tea.  
He’s only shadows of these things for you  
He is all of these things every day for me. 

Small warm ripples run over the bed; he feels Sherlock’s arms winding around his shoulders. Before Sherlock can say anything, John closes his eyes and speaks softly. 

“Oh, yes. Definitely your poof.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock’s poetry has had an odd affect on John’s psyche. He expected everything from Sherlock except sentiment, and it seems Sherlock has, contrary to what he tells everyone, a heart brimming with the stuff. 

John is flattered, surely, but it goes much further. The sentiment in the poems swells in his heart, and deep in there he starts to understand that this relationship requires a pronouncement, a declaration, something official. 

And like a good Englishman, he keeps the feeling suppressed until it becomes so ripe, it bursts when he least expects it. 

 

“There’s a letter here from Pembroke College, Cambridge.” 

John is just home from work and has the day’s mail. Sherlock is sitting at his microscope, watching small shreds of nylon curl and disintegrate under minute drops of acetate. 

“Throw it in the bin.” 

John flips the envelope back and forth, looking at the crest, assessing the weight. “It’s addressed to you.” 

“Throw it in the bin.” 

“Aren’t you a little curious?” 

“No. It’s a letter asking me to contribute to some alumnae fund.” 

“Did you go to Pembroke College?”

Sherlock lifts his eyes from the lenses. “Why else would they ask me for money?” 

“You never used to get letters from them.” 

“I never used to have my quotidian details, assorted flaws and shoe size advertised on your blog either.”

John shrugs. “Can I open it?” 

“You can do anything you want with it, except show it to me. Or read it to me, unless one of m’tutors has been murdered in extraordinary circumstances and they require my assistance.” 

Sherlock was right - the letter is boring. John throws it and the ripped envelope in the bin, then tries several times to engage Sherlock in a discussion about his university days. He gets monosyllabic answers so instead takes to the Internet to learn about Sherlock’s alma mater.

 

Sherlock chuckles to himself when he reads through John’s browser history the next day. That it matters to him, that John cares so deeply about Sherlock’s personal history, is delightful. It is also impressive how widely John read to better understand Sherlock’s college – it takes Sherlock almost an hour to wade through it all. 

All the while, he wonders if he and John might have been friends if they met at university. Sherlock decides no: he considers his young self to have been unripe, not quite grown into what his gifts had promised of him while John, on the other hand, would have been a hopeful, excitable kind of young man. It’s unlikely they would have been ready for one another. 

He concludes with great pleasure that he found John at exactly the right time and place. 

When John comes home from work that night, this lengthy poem is taped to the front door and he reads it, sitting on the stairs: 

For I will consider my John Watson.   
For he is the blood of my everyday.   
For he is blond but dark.   
For he is fair always.   
For he sleeps naked.   
For he wakes some nights screaming.  
For he was a soldier.   
For he saw many troubling things.   
For he is haunted by them still.   
For he can find solace from night terrors in my arms.   
For he is safe there.   
For he is made not only of sugar and spice  
But slugs and snails and puppy dog tails.   
For he is a juxtaposition.   
For he is an anomaly.   
For he is the answer to my every query.   
For he is sound. 

For John Watson is a doctor.   
For he cares for his fellow man and woman.   
For he can heal their sores.   
For he can stitch their wounds.   
For he can apply a poultice.   
For he can hear their hearts.   
For he will take their hearts’ secrets to his grave.  
For he is faithful.  
For he cannot lie.   
For he will lie if I ask him especially. 

For John Watson is loved by all our friends.   
For he watches Rugby with Lestrade.   
For he drinks at pubs with Stamford.   
For he built a carpeted perch for Molly’s dimwit cat.  
For he takes tea with our Hudders.   
For he gives cheek in tonnage to Mycroft.  
For he is kind.   
For he is entertaining.   
For he is a fine addition to any social gathering. 

For John Watson understands the value of natural fibre.   
For he wears jumpers.   
For his jumpers are legendary.   
For his shirts are a blend of silk and cotton.   
For he understands the buttoning of coats.  
For he combs his pale yellow hair, even though it is short.   
For he shaves daily.   
For I like my doctors clean shaven.   
For he straightens my collar sometimes.   
For I live for the touch of his fingers at my neck.   
For I love his quiet face when he straightens my collar.   
For on straightening my collar he will touch my cheek with his thumb.   
For he smiles at me.   
For his smile is infectious.   
For his smile is bright and warming.   
For his smile is devastatingly handsome.   
For his smile can be wicked.   
For his smile can be knowing.   
For his smile is the last thing I want to see on this earth. 

For John Watson is domesticated.   
For he can find the baking soda at Waitrose.   
For he can grease a pan.   
For he knows where to hide the biscuits.   
For he can cook a joint of meat.  
For his pasta is al dente always.  
For he can make gravy from scratch.   
For he can make butter melt on toast as it should.   
For he can smooth sheets.  
For he can clean the tub.  
For he can gather shards of glass from the floor.   
For he can get blood off a wall.   
For he can boil water for tea.  
For he makes a fine cup of tea.  
The best tea in all of Britain. 

For John Watson is a man.   
For he has XY chromosomes.  
For his masculinity is there in his broad shoulders.  
For he has square hands.  
For he is strong.   
For his chest is hard and furry.  
For his biceps bulge.  
For his hips are narrow.  
For on his toes he has small wiry hairs.  
For he uses his body to shield me from harm.  
For he offers his body to me at whim.  
For he visits my body with reverence.   
For he has spoilt my body for anyone else. 

For John Watson is every rare thing scientists covet.   
For he is the supernova.  
For he is a king tide.   
For he is an active volcano covered in veins of lava.  
For he is Pi.  
For he is a prime number.  
For he is 42, always.   
For he is plasma.  
For he is electricity.   
For he is carbon.   
For without him there is no life. 

For he came to me when I had given up.   
For he filled every room in my mind.  
For he wall-papered those rooms.  
For he added curtains.  
For he brought vases that he filled with blossoms.  
For he lay carpet in my rooms.  
For he made me livable.  
For he chased away the cold in me.  
For he swept out the despair in me.   
For he turned on all the lights.  
For he fitted new locks.  
For he has made his home in me.   
For he makes me the man I hoped to be. 

For his fills my life completely.  
For there is no room for anyone else.   
For he giggles.   
For he never misses a target.   
For he has shaped my heart with his bare hands.   
For he holds it carefully everyday.   
For he is my blessing.

John leans against the wall and breaths through his mouth. His eyes feel salty. Oh, is all he can say. Oh. He waits until the pools in his eyes have subsided before he goes into 221b. 

Sherlock is sitting elegantly in his black chair. 

“Rather long, wasn’t it? What, has it upset you?” He leaps up, hands extended. “Did I say something wrong?” 

John shakes his head. “No. I’m just – you astonish me sometimes.” He wipes one eye with the back of his hand. 

“You’re teary with happiness? Misery? Sentiment? Indigestion?” 

“I’m not teary.” And when he remembers who exactly he is talking with, “Happiness. Sentiment.” 

Sherlock wraps his arms around him and speaks into his hair. 

“So. John. I’ve driven you to sentimental tears. Does that make me romantic?”

John leans back with a small smirk. “Is that what this all about?”

“Well, it was, but it turned out to be less about seeing if I was romantic, and more about telling you things that I thought you should know. And then it turned into a thing for us, and it was – well, fun. And you liked it.” 

“I do. I look forward to your poems. And I don’t even like poetry that much.” 

“So? Am I romantic?” 

John nods. “Yes. Very romantic. Actually, more romantic than the romantics.” 

“Who are they?”

“Seriously? You honestly don’t know?” Sherlock looks at him blankly so John explains. “They were English poets who lived for romance in all its form. Shelley? Keats? Ring a bell?”

“Nope. Are they alive?” 

“No. They lived in the early nineteenth century.” 

“Were they idiots?” 

“They were poets. The two are mutually exclusive.” 

“Poets can be idiots. We had one who came to our school when I was fourteen and he was a complete idiot. Kept reading us poetry.” 

“Sherlock, I have to tell you something.” 

“Proceed.” 

“I know I called you a machine once and I’m sorry. I was wrong. You’re not a machine. But I want you to be like the machine in the story and keep giving me poems as long as I live.” 

“As long as that one?” 

“Not necessarily. But they can be as nice as that one.” 

“You know, I could write a epic about your foreskin.” 

“Yes, I don’t doubt you could. But, actually, no, that ‘s not what I want to tell you.” 

Sherlock stares at him with unwavering, blinking intensity. 

“No, no,” John lifts his hand and drops his gaze, “You’re being scary again.” 

“John, this is my listening-and-understanding face. You’ll have to learn to cope with it. I can’t use any other face when I listen and prepare to comprehend. Now tell me what you want to say.” 

“I’m actually not sure.” 

That’s when it bursts in his heart, the things he wants to say, the question he wants Sherlock to answer for both of them. 

“It’s special, this,” John stutters, his open hand moving back and forth between them. “It’s - we have something good. We should do something.” 

Sherlock is entirely confused and stares harder, waiting to learn what mysterious relationship thing they should do. He has unerring faith that John will instruct him.

“I mean,” John continues, “We should tell everyone. It should be a public announcement.” 

“I think everyone knows,” Sherlock says doubtfully. 

“We have to … I don’t know, nail it to the door of the Town Hall. We should say that - we should tell people.” 

“Nail what to the door of the Town Hall? A big sign that says Holmes and Watson are boyfriends?” 

John takes a deep breath. “We should get married.” 

They stare intensely at each other. 

“I have to go for a walk,” Sherlock says after several seconds. 

“Yes,” John agrees, no less shell-shocked than his mate. “A big walk. And I have to go to bed early. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

 

Sherlock walks all over London for hours, thinking about nothing and everything. He ends up staying at Mycroft’s, who assumes John has kicked him out, perhaps after a fight of some kind. Mycroft’s every endeavour to learn more is met with a sour face and mild abuse and he gives up after the eighth try. 

Stretched out in Mycroft’s guest room, Sherlock retreats to his mind palace and walks through all the cities he’s travelled by himself, through all the lonely long nights he’s had and all the effort he spent resigning to a life he expected to live alone through circumstance, not choice.

John spends the night wondering why he proposed marriage again. The first time was a disaster. He tries to imagine every thing that could go wrong in this marriage and foresees years of crimes, fear, danger, violent criminals, odd smells from unidentified chemicals, poetry taped to the front door, genetically modified rabbits, more criminals, fires, lots of laughter, hot sweaty sex, more danger and endless cups of tea. 

He decides it sounds pretty much like heaven. 

The couple text briefly just before one am: 

Are you ok?   
Yes. At Mycroft’s. Let’s talk tomorrow.   
Sure. 

When Sherlock gets home in the morning, John has left for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s poem in this chapter is inspired by For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry, which is part of the Jubilate Agno, written by Christopher Smart in the 18th Century. Jeoffry shared the poet’s cell in an asylum and was his only company for many years. Christopher Smart studied at Pembroke College, Cambridge, as did Douglas Adams, who (in his Hitchhiker’s Trilogy) famously declared the meaning of life to be 42.


	10. Chapter 10

There would be lots of poems over the ensuing years, all of which John kept in his little folder, and all of which he’d read again and again, but none he loved so much as the as the one he got later that day. 

He was hard at work, writing up some notes about an itchy patient with an allergic reaction, when a courier delivered an envelope to the front desk. 

“Does that still happen? Are couriers still a thing?” John asked the receptionist when she brought the letter to his office. 

The receptionist shrugs. “Apparently.” 

John doesn’t think about what it might be until he splits the envelope and unfolds the fine cotton paper. He recognises the small, neat letters: 

 

John Watson asks me   
If I would consent to sharing with him  
Years of dishes stacked in the sink  
Years of hot chips for dinner  
Years of an ever warm unmade bed  
Years of arguments about the heater -  
Decades of all the mundane and interesting things  
While we get busy growing old  
In a swarm of bees. 

And I say yes, yes, yes,  
I do. 

 

Before he calls Sherlock, before he starts to plan and worry and anticipate, John holds the poem close to his face and smiles. Oh, he says to himself. Oh, Sherlock.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock knows better than most people just how many things need to be organised in order to have a successful wedding, which is why he whinges to Mycroft to find someone to do it for him. 

“How much organization does it need?” John wants to know over breakfast a few days later. “Can’t we just go to Chelsea Town Hall and sign the papers?” 

Sherlock is spooning tea leaves into the pot. “No. You wanted a public declaration and I am determined to give you one. In any case, people who turn up at weddings make investments, John, and they expect a return.” 

“Investments? What, are they going to pin money to our suits?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Although that is, in fact, a great idea. But no. I mean, they make investments in attending the wedding. They get their hair done, they buy new clothes, they take time off work and they forget to have breakfast while they’re picking up their suit from the cleaners. They expect a wedding to provide them with entertainment and lots of food and drink. They get very aggressive if their investment isn’t returned.” 

“You’re just making this shit up,” John smiles at him. 

Sherlock puffs up to his full height and lowers his eyelids slightly, standing at the stove with a teapot in his hand. “I’ll have you know that when I organised your first wedding, I was asked repeatedly what kind of food we were serving and who was being invited. Everyone wanted a good meal and to see an argument between possible adversaries or better still, someone objecting to the vows. People expect a show, John, which is why I’ve asked Mycroft to pay someone to organise a good one.” 

“Do you know how dignified you look in your pyjamas holding a teapot? That’s a real skill, that is.” John is looking at him with genuine admiration.

“Shut up and stop changing the subject. Drama at a wedding is very important.” 

“Are you asking any adversaries to our wedding, then?” 

“I’m not telling.” 

John is enjoying this. “Can I suggest a few?” 

“No.” Sherlock is pouring tea, stretching the brew as he fills the cup. “You proved last time that you are useless at weddings so I’ve decided that all you have to do is take a shower and show up. And sign the certificate, obviously.” 

“USELESS? Excuse me?” 

“Useless. You couldn’t even tell the difference between lilac and lavender. And you didn’t marry me then either, so obviously you are no position to make any important decisions now.” 

John opens his mouth to prolong the argument but it’s true – he still can’t tell the difference between lilac and lavender and he did marry the wrong person last time. 

“Alright. Whatever you say. What are we wearing?” 

“Well, I thought morning suits might be appropriate, but we did, of course, wear those last time. So I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a Kiton suit which will be identical to the Kiton suit I’ve ordered for myself.”

“Kiton? Is he a friend of yours?” 

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “No. Kiton is a very noble menswear manufacturer. They make extremely nice suits.” 

“Are we going to wear matching suits?” 

“Yes. Although that detail will be lost on most people because you and I are not similar visually.” 

John is a little nervous about the whole notion. Sherlock nips it in the bud. 

“The suits are very plain, straight cut from black merino wool. We will be the belles of the ball. . And the photos will be perfect. Stop looking at me as if I’m planning your execution. It will all be FINE. Now tell me what will be in your speech.” 

“No.” 

Sherlock is dumbstruck for a couple of seconds, and stares at John with face full of shock, opened mouth and wide eyes. “What? Don’t be ridiculous. What’s in your speech?” 

“You’ll hear it on the day. It will be a surprise.” John’s smile is enigmatic.

“I loathe surprises. You know that. Tell me what’s in your speech.” 

John shakes his head. “No. All you have to know is that is nothing like your speech, and that I’m saying nice things.” 

***

Sherlock continues to pester John about his speech for the entire two months leading up to their wedding. When he is not pestering John, he pesters every single person who is invited to the wedding, all of whom have been instructed expressly not to assist him. 

It doesn’t stop him trying. 

“I have no idea,” Molly says meekly. “And even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. It’s going to be a surprise.” 

“Nice try,” Lestrade smirks. “This might be the only time I know something you don’t, so get stuffed.” 

“If you have called me to try yet again to extract information about John’s speech, you’re wasting your time,” Mycroft sniffs. 

“Oh Sherlock! It’s all so romantic! Is John giving a speech? Well, I don’t know anything about that. Sit down and stop fidgeting and I’ll bring you up a nice cup of tea,” Mrs Hudson soothed. 

“Sherlock, you’re being a pest,” his mother calls especially to tell him. “Why can’t you just wait for the big day?” 

“It’s not that great,” John tells him a week before the wedding when they are being fitted for their beautiful suits. “You’ve built it up to something ridiculous and I’m starting to worry that you’ll be disappointed when you hear it.” 

Sherlock is staring hard at a mirror, watching the tailor adjust the length of his trousers. “I just can’t believe you’ve managed to keep something hidden from me. You’re a good deal more Machiavellian than I suspected, John Watson. ” 

“I can’t believe you’ve just worked that out now. And you’re right, these suits are great.”

“Of course I’m right. And obviously, I’ve always known you’re Machiavellian. I wouldn’t be marrying you otherwise.” He lifts his gaze to John’s reflection and smiles with a tiny crinkling of his nose. 

 

***

The grooms-to-be are lying naked side by side on their bed, far too excited to sleep. They are to be married tomorrow at the Chelsea Town Hall. Their new suits fit perfectly and hang side by side in the wardrobe. Fifty people have been invited to witness the vows, and to join them afterwards at the Criterion for a wedding breakfast. 

“I found your speech.” Sherlock doesn’t have much hope in this appalling lie, but figures there’s no harm in one last try. 

John laughs and reaches for his hand. “You did not.” 

“John, this has been agonizing. You know how I hate surprises. Just let me read it and I promise I won’t change a syllable. Unless it’s wrong.” 

“No. You’ll hear it tomorrow and hopefully be pleasantly surprised.” 

“I hate surprises. Surprises are boring. I need to be prepared, John. Will you at least tell me where you hid it?”

“I wouldn’t tell you even if you guessed. Patience, my love.” 

The lay together quietly for a short time, twining their fingers together in the dark. 

“Fancy this,” John says after a while. 

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Sherlock agrees. 

“But right,” John whispers. “It feels right.” 

“Did Mary feel right?” Sherlock asks and immediately wished he hadn’t. 

John doesn’t mind. “No,” is all he says. “But this does.” 

“It does,” Sherlock agrees. “Strange and right.” 

***

In the morning, their wedding day, John finds a small slip of paper wrapped carefully around his razor: 

The man   
Who is truly brave  
Is he who knows what is good  
And what is awful  
And goes out prepared  
To meet both. 

Today I marry true  
Today I marry brave. 

And in case I am dazzled   
By your bravery and truth  
And forget to tell you

Let me remind you now  
That I will love you  
Every day of our life. 

 

John sighs. When he dresses in his wedding suit he tucks the poem in the inside pocket, where it rests against his heart. 

Oh, Sherlock. 

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps Sherlock studied Ancient History for his A levels, because the first verse of that poem draws heavily from Thucydides (The History of the Peloponnesian War).


End file.
